


lancelot/dagonet

by romanticalgirl



Series: December Ficlets 2007 [16]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted 12-22-07</p>
    </blockquote>





	lancelot/dagonet

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 12-22-07

There are few secrets between the knights, bound as they are by language and duty and contract, not to mention the fact that they share close quarters in living and fighting and what leisure time they have. Each has some measure of privacy though nothing is taken for granted when the night is dying and the women are drunk enough on wine and whispered words to fall prey to the promise of the wildness of the outsiders they represent.

Even less privacy is allowed when morning comes and these women slink away in shame and worry, afraid of husbands and lovers finding where they’ve spent their night, afraid to look in the faces of the other knights as they slip past filled beds and sharp, knowing eyes. Most of the men look away, but Lancelot always watches, always sees who is willing to risk everything by coming to their quarters, to be seen by men who never forget a slight or a promise.

Several of the knights bring no one back with them, preferring to remain free of the scrutiny Lancelot’s dark eyes offer. Lancelot himself prefers to remain out of Tristan’s knowing gaze, prefers not to see the sly smile that always offers a hint of danger. Tristan himself shows no signs of needing a woman or otherwise, his needs and lusts satisfied far from prying eyes. Or so most think. Some know better. 

Dagonet watches as well, never speaking. He finds that words are less productive than action, than a mere look most of the time. He doesn’t bother to say things, as he doesn’t speak with the eloquence of Lancelot or the mysterious certainty of Tristan. When he does speak, it is simple fact stated starkly and nothing more needs to be said. He brooks no arguments, and the others fall in line. The women he sees are never seen by the others, though his secrets are just as well kept by those who keep Tristan’s. There are three of them bound in this, and while one has few secrets of his own, he keeps those of the others bound tightly to his chest.

Perhaps because he is one of them.

The rooms are empty at midday, the rest of the knights in the yards training or off on a mission with Arthur’s Roman consul. The sun will set early, so work is done with haste and without rest, and it allows this, this moment where Lancelot can slip inside and breathe air of his own, moving past bunks and bedrolls and furs until he reaches Dagonet, sprawled on his own cot, legs spread and eyes dark.

For all that Lancelot is pretty words and speeches, he is silent in this. He abides by Dagonet’s rules as he strips off his leathers and watches as Dagonet does the same, his hips lifting off the cot to push his simple trousers down. Lancelot bites back any noise as he straddles him, licking his fingers and covering them generously with spit before sliding his hand back, pushing his fingers inside him, deep and wet before removing them and sinking down on Dagonet slowly, his lips pursed as he shudders his way along Dagonet’s length.

The only sound is flesh meeting, the rest of it buried like secrets against their skin, murmured against leather and fur and cloth and flesh. Lancelot pants against Dagonet as his large hand clenches around Lancelot’s shaft, stroking hard with his calloused palm while Lancelot takes him deeper with every thrust, as he sinks down again and again until everything stops – breathing, time, thought – and the world shatters into a million silent pieces.


End file.
